Bullets, Badges and Bad Blood
by LoLGunslinger
Summary: When blowing Twisted Fate's head off in the Rift became empty and hollow, Graves decided to hunt the bastard down in the real world. Given that, he set out towards Piltover, the last place he'd heard of the magician being spotted. Unfortunately, being the Outlaw he is, the Sheriff and her Enforcer aren't going to make thing easy for him, forcing him to become the new ganglord.


[Author's Note: Graves is, straight up, my best and most favorite champ, and quite honestly one of the most underplayed in League. He's one of the tankiest ADCs, he hits hard and he's got a serious badass attitude in his character and a bullying playstyle to his fighting that just makes me love playing him. So, to see quite a lot of his potential seemingly wasted (no offense, I don't read Yaoi, personal preference) is a bit of a personal gripe with me. So, this fanfic is meant to not only further address the conflict between the two (seriously, why would Graves just be satisfied with shooting Twisted Fate and he never dies?) but to also go further with what I believe he would be completely awesome at. So, without further ado, enjoy!]

[BTW: flames will be used to heat the boiler pot of my ideas, so while criticism is appreciated, flaming will get you reported!]

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**Bullets, Badges and Bad Blood**

Chapter 1: New Boss in Town

**Piltover Slums**

The technological city of Piltover wasn't quite as clean and free of corruption as its sparkling appearance might have suggested. The clean, high walls and open boulevards were certainly inviting, but underneath it all, beneath the cobblestone streets packed with bustling, hustling hextech cars and crowds of pedestrians, the underworld still lived. True, the introduction of Sheriff Caitlyn, her rough and tumble enforcer Vi and the renewed efforts of a now almost corruption-free Piltover Regional Police Department had severely clipped the wings of both the mafia and the loose-floating gangs, but they hadn't been wiped out…yet. Still, the sight of a single PRPD hextech cruiser rolling down the street struck a deeper meaning to criminals than it ever had before. Unable to keep their open foothold in the cleaner, richer boroughs like Central, Plainview and Yordletown, crime had to retreat to the outer regions, the poorer places such as Gearhead, Riverside and an area of ramshackle, aging brick neighborhoods known as the Bentari Project, though most people just called it the Slums. This place was supposed to have been restored by Councilman Bentari, back before his mob connections were revealed and money for the endeavor dried up. Ever since then, this entire area of older residences and shops had fallen into disrepair, and even compared to the industrial-overridden Gearhead district it had to be the worst looking in the city, on pair with many places in Zaun, so it was said. Here, thugs and mobsters at least could breath in a sigh of relief that they weren't going to be picked out of a crowd to identify them on sight by a passing patrol, and so they used their surroundings as best they could to keep on the downlow, practicing their craft where they could, but unable to do it openly. Provoking a response from the police was just asking for Sheriff or Enforcer to come down on your head, much less a personal visit from Jayce. Or maybe, if there were no civilians around, a passing Security Zeppelin might just drop a shell on the area and be done with it.

And so, our story begins in a back alley of this criminally-pressed city, where the dirt of the residents felt the urge and calling to do something they'd never considered before; dropping their flags and taking to honest jobs. The money wasn't worth the trouble, they said. Getting a .90 caliber bullet in the leg or a hextech gauntlet to the face was too much to risk, and even the common .45 rounds from hextech patrol revolvers was a daunting prospect. This was the topic going around between a dozen criminals as they stood in a small cloister, jacketed to try and resist the onset of winter. Snow was falling down now onto their heads and shoulders as they stood around a dumpster fire, tossing trash in over and over again. They wore long, defeated expressions, shoulders slumped and voices low. These were the remnants of the Fitachiori crew, a well-respected criminal group that practiced extortion, vandalism, arson, blackmail. They had been one of the toughest out of the remaining gangs, and thanks to a massive PRPD raid last week, they had no leadership, no safehouses left and no boss. The fact that Vi had spearheaded the assault left little doubt about how quickly it had ended, and now those that had escaped arrest or simply being gunned down were forced to pick a new leader…or try their luck elsewhere.

They weren't alone. Out on the streets and in back alleys, the remnants of other crews had found refuge together, hiding from the police as they tried to determine where to go. But not many gangsters possessed much in the way of thinking power or strategy, and simply trying to survive made things…difficult. It wasn't as if many of them could go and get legitimate jobs, either. Police records were updated constantly, and all a shopowner had to do was take a photo with a hextech camera, send it in and the criminal's rap sheet would be pulled up almost instantly. Only those who had never been arrested, done prison time or could change their appearance could manage in this new, lawful era.

And thus, we start with the current problem facing our delinquents.

"I'm thinking of moving home," one of the thugs was saying, scratching his broad chin with a muscular thumb. He was tall, broad and had harsh, sharp features, all of them determining him as a Northerner from Freljord. His blonde hair was pulled back into a wolftail, and his beard clipped short while his walrus moustache dipped down past his mouth. Both Jordic war emblems and Piltover gang tattoos decorated his muscular arms, and he wore a sleeveless vest despite the snowfall, though his driver's cap was pulled low over his eyes.

"I'm right there with you," said another man sitting on a crate nearby, this one a local from Piltover. "Figure I can find someone who can change my face. I heard about this guy named Mundo, from Zaun. Word is, you can get just about anything medicinal from him-"

"Frak. That. Noise," said a third man, shaking his head and rubbing his hands under his arms. "Mundo would rather use you as one of his experimental pets than help you out, even if you paid him. That sick freak doesn't know the meaning of the word 'morals.'" Several others nearby nodded in agreement, shivering with no connection to the cold.

"Well, what about Zaun?" asked the third man again, glancing around. He had a blue bullseye tattoo over his left eye, and two silver rings hung from his right ear. "Shit, I think they –take- people like us gladly."

"That's only true if you work for 'em," said a drawl nearby, and in a second every thug leapt up from their positions. Guns and knives flew from hidden holsters and sheaths, and a troll in the corner by the building even tugged a cannon out from the shadows. These criminals may have been downtrodden, but years of surviving in a cutthroat world where illegal living was made even more strenuous by a crusading law force kept their reflexes sharp, and they were good and ready, expecting a police officer leading a team to come and arrest them, lead by either a brunette or a pink-headed high-standing League champion.

But imagine their surprise when all they spotted was a single silhouetted figure, standing in the mouth of the alleyway, slightly slumped over. The red cherry tip of a cigar flared in the darkness, and for a brief second the black reflection of lenses shone out. As he stepped forward into the firelight, his features were revealed. Weathered, sharp and slightly sagging with age. Black hair swept back and tinged only slightly with silver, and though he sagged it was obvious that his figure was still strong and impressive, with broad shoulders and firm hands. He wore a poncho to protect him from the cold and the sharp wind, and his loose traveling clothes were well worn. Of course, he too was armed, though it took a second for the gangsters to realize that the massive form over his shoulder was a weapon, and even then the troll in the corner felt a little inadequate. The massive double-barreled, cylinder-fed pump-action shotgun was a glorious blending of brass and wood, mixed together to create a firearm that looked as though it could blast the front off a car.

But it was when the man reached up to tug his lenses down that they truly felt fear. Black eyes stared out at them, haunted and deep like a mineshaft, echoing with some long-rent past full of strife and suffering, his own and others. He looked at them all with the air of a predator, sizing the group up in a second and seeing not a threat…but prey. The Jordic hulk, closest to the mysterious stranger, took a step back, the axe in his hand dipping slightly at the sheer waves of strength this man emanated. Something about the newcomer said that no mere mortal should try and cross him…but in a second, the blond man rallied, and one-by-one, so did the others, realizing that he wasn't police, he was alone, and he might not have come here looking for trouble.

And then the stranger spoke again. "Zaun'll fund the worst kind of people, the ones who have no safeties, no restraints and no interest in holdin' back. Them that'll experiment on whoever they can get their hands on, perform procedures they only –think- might work…or ones they know will fail. The only reason one might go there…is if they were insane enough to do it them that ain't." He raised an eyebrow at a nearby youth, one of the last recruits to the old crew, who held a dagger in hand like an ice cream cone, his obvious inexperience shining through even through the fierce face he had on. "Put that away son, before you hurt yourself."

"I ain't afraid of you!" the teenager sneered, though it was clear he honestly was. The black-haired man sighed, shaking his head before he swung the gun down off his shoulder, the barrels pausing only momentarily before coming up swiftly into the boy's gut, knocking the wind out of him and throwing the kid off to the side, where he slammed into a wall. While the boy slid to the ground and coughed, the stranger made no move to pull the trigger. Around them, the criminals made no move to intervene, focused instead on the man's face. The black-haired gunner sighed, bringing his hand up to rub at his eyes as he considered the men before him. "Now that's just a sad sight, right there. Y'all are supposed to be thugs? No wonder gangs in this place are going down the drain."

"What the frak did you say?!" snapped another gangster nearby, a bit older and more experienced than the recruit. Unfortunately, this man was also a bit too diehard for the cause, one who proudly wore gang colors and wasn't afraid to represent. Point of fact, he also wasn't afraid to bring his hextech revolver to point into the stranger's face, thumbing back the hammer as he tilted it to the side. "Listen, Skinner! I don't think you come from here, so I'll set you straight! No, and I mean no one, sets down the Fitachiori Ghosts, got it?"

"You got exactly two seconds to get that out of my face," the stranger growled, only giving the goon a cursory glance as he raised a black eyebrow. "Otherwise…hope you weren't planning to die 'a –natural- causes." When the goon only gave a look of surprise, but didn't pull the pistol back, the man sighed, shaking his head a little. "Your loss."

Abruptly, he leaned forward, and with a speed unexpected of his age, Graves used a _Quickdraw_, swiftly ending up behind the thug before he smashed the stock of Destiny into the back of the man's head, blood spraying across the pavement as his face hit the ground. On reflex, the Jordic man hefted his axe up, a slight hitch in his movements as he tried to figure out what was happening. Of course, he halted as soon as he realized there was an enormous gauge shotgun stuck in his face, a barrel in each eye so he could see the individual chambers of the cylinder, thanks to the dull yellow glow emanating from the brass component. If the stranger pulled the trigger, there would be absolutely nothing left of his skull. Unconciously, the Jordsman's fingers loosened around the axe, letting the weapon fall as the last of the man's courage left him. "H-hey. Look; we're not trying to cause trouble. Just say what you want…not much left to be proud of, anyway."

For but a brief instant, Graves stared at the hulk over the tops of his lenses, and the Jord could have sworn that those black depths were gazing into his very soul, examining and scrutinizing every inch of him with but a look. Finally, however, the Outlaw pulled back, letting the weapon hang at his side again. "That's about the long and short of it, I heard. Things are about wrapped up here, aren't they? Sheriff's gone and got y'all runnin' scared, sound about right?" At the rather demoralized nods he got from around the group, Graves grunted, reaching up and tugging his glasses free, tugging Destiny's sling over his shoulder as he slowly stepped into the midst of the group, glancing around at each of them in turn. Though he showed no expression or made any intent, several gangsters suddenly stood rigid, as if they felt they were being inspected for something. At one point, Graves reached a hand out, grasping one man by the face and showing him hard enough to toss the man off his feet, into the wall behind him.

"So that's the story?" he asked, standing in the middle of them all. "That's it? You're all just gonna roll over and let it end like that? Guess the rumors were true…Piltover crime is weak." He spat at the ground, glancing around at the thugs again before asking "I suppose the name Twisted Fate don't mean nothing, eh?" Upon noting their confused expressions and vacant faces, he grunted, scratching at his chin. "Nah…he's cocky, but he's smarter'n that now. Still…gotta start somewhere. Okay, boys. Get ready; there's a new chief in town. Welcome to the Gravediggers."

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[Given the way the League works, I'm assuming people aren't simply yanked out of their lives and unable to ever go back again, so all those times between matches when champions aren't fighting each other, they've most likely back home, resuming their constantly interrupted lives...kinda sucks to be Annie, Ashe, Trundle and Leoona, eh? All joking aside, feedback is extremely appreciative, as it'll give me more than a good enough feel as to how to improve my writing. This may not be my first crack at internet writing, but it is my first LoL fic. Cheers, all! And I hope to get another chapter up something in the next two weeks!]


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